The next day, while Sylvia bustled The Girls around, I tried to keep a low profile. Every time I walked by one of them they’d ask me to do something. I was moody; I kept feeling flashes of anger, but I’m so good at not saying anything that, well, I didn’t say anything. My head was full of questions. Where had things gone so wrong? Why couldn’t I just stand up for myself? Why did I care so much about those coffee cup rings on the furniture? But mostly: Do I or don’t I want to go to the prom?
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